


Blurred Mind

by Iminaloine



Category: Powerpuff Girls
Genre: Angst because I can't help it, Butch is not exactly fully clothed, Buttercup is an asshole but you can't hate her, Dark Thoughts kinda, Friendship, Gen, Hangover, Humour, Hungover Butch, Someone from Pencils makes an appearance, implied alcohol use, implied alcoholism, not exactly but they're implied, slight blood warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25860349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iminaloine/pseuds/Iminaloine
Summary: Out of all the pain he's experienced, this kind of pain is the kind he'd rather live without.In which Butch goes through hangover woes, and his best friend and somewhat-friend are there to help (and mess with him). Oneshot. Butch-centric. Rated T for language and slight blood.
Relationships: Butch/Alcohol
Kudos: 8





	Blurred Mind

**Author's Note:**

> I RETURN
> 
> This is my first oneshot, so be gentle :'-D
> 
> Also, for anyone who's read Pencils, you're in for a pleasant surprise~! Or, at least I think it's pleasant. I dunno. You get to decide. Heh.
> 
> Leave some comments, humans! I wanna know what you think!

Sprawled out in the middle of a field at midnight, in nothing but a jacket and boxers. That's where he is right now. It's not exactly how Butch intended to spend the first day of summer vacation, but he's been through (and seen) far worse.

It is cold as hell—that's the first thought that runs through his head. The second is that he's sober; that is, a far cry from the inebriated mess he was an indefinite number of hours ago.

Five? Six? He thinks it's six.

He'd move, but his body's heavy and his head is killing him and _it's so freaking cold_.

He tries to say, "Fuck," but his voice, weak and scratchy—probably from all the screaming he did when he was wasted—comes out as a guttural gurgle of air. He cringes at the sound.

Annoyance flashes through his body, just for a second. He silently curses the universe for bestowing upon him the ability to hold liquor appallingly poorly. His low tolerance has never deterred him, and he always figured he'd get better as the years went by.

But he hasn't. Instead, he always ends up in positions like this.

But...now that he really thinks about it, it's never been this bad, with his memory a black void and his stomach churning—

"Ugh." he groans, sitting up just fast enough to puke all over the grass. His stomach heaves painfully as he empties its chemical contents.

Once the waves of nausea have subsided, he manages to get to his feet. He hobbles over to the nearest tree, blinking back the pain of the bass drum pounding in his head and squinting through his blurred vision. It's deathly silent; he looks around to get his bearings.

The buildings nearby are all unfamiliar.

He sighs, guessing he probably flew off in some direction after getting hammered at the party—a party that he's not ever sure who threw at this point. He supposes that he just came, attracted by the loud music and booze.

He rests against the tree, blinking blearliy at the moon. He decides that once he regains his composure, he'll try to figure out his whereabouts from above. He doesn't know when that'll be, though, since he feels like literal shit, and probably will keep feeling this way as long as his stomach keeps churning—

He hunches over, violently expelling fluids from his belly again. Only this time, despite his stomach being empty, he keeps dry heaving. His brain refuses to relieve him of this torture, and he retches over and over, coming up empty over and over until he's whimpering at the intense pain. It's the kind of pain that the Chemical X can't fix. The kind he has to power through.

For once, he actually wishes he doesn't have to.

By the time the agonizing lurches of his stomach have finally stopped, he's squatting, clutching at his abdomen and breathing hard. His eyes swim, but he clenches his teeth. He's fine. He's gone through far worse than this. He's _broken bones, punctured organs._ He's totally fine—

He retches again.

Blood splatters.

 _Fuck_.

He doesn't know if it's the cold of the night, or his currently liquor-weakened body, but this hurts a lot more than he's accustomed to. Obviously, he's had a hangover and vomited before. But he's never dry heaved this badly—he's never felt this terrible in general. The strained whimpers he keeps letting out are enough proof of that.

He doubts he can make it home in this state. He doubts he can even stand up. But passing out in a puddle of his own sick, half-naked, in the cold dead of night isn't exactly the best alternative.

He has to move at some point.

He takes a deep breath, reaching up to wipe the bile from his mouth and the tears ( _the fucking tears_ ) from his eyes. Then he closes them, trying his best to will away as much of the pain as he can.

He's so concentrated on doing this that he almost doesn't hear the sound of approaching footsteps.

But y'know. Superhearing's a thing.

His head snaps up—an action he immediately regrets because his head starts throbbing like crazy—and he sends a murderous glare at the unwanted company, lips twisted in a sneer.

His expression quickly fades when he realizes who it is, though.

"Damn," Marley whispers as he walks up. His shaggy mane of red hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, and his face is set in an expression of mild amusement. Behind him is Buttercup, whose expression is a lot less contained than Marley's. Her shit-eating grin might as well be the size of the freaking moon.

Determined not to show his discomfort, Butch doesn't move his gaze from the azure and viridian pairs of eyes trained on his less-than-graceful position.

"You look like shit," Buttercup says.

"Smell like shit, too," Marley adds helpfully.

Butch slowly lifts up one hand, letting his raised middle finger come into full view. They snicker unabashedly.

He hates his friends.

He clears his throat and asks, "Why are you two here?"

"We came looking for your drunk ass after you disappeared from the party," Buttercup replies. "I _told_ you to slow down, y'know. You've got the tolerance of a five-year-old."

"Maybe I just didn't want to be stuck with you and your _unhealthy relationship with alcohol_ all night," he retorts hoarsely.

"Says the guy sitting in the cold with nothing but his boxers on."

"I'm wearing a jacket too!"

"I see that. Is it helping you?"

"Guys," Marley cuts in, effectively silencing them both.

Butch doesn't even want to ask why he's barely clothed. At least not in front of Buttercup. He'll admit that they've come pretty far from their insane mutual hatred of last year. They're on friendly terms now, at least. But _Marley_ is his best friend.

Plus, she's a freaking _girl_. Talking about how he's one layer away from his birthday suit wouldn't exactly be the best conversation to have.

He sighs. "Can you help me up?"

For a moment, they don't move. They're too appalled by what he said—by the fact that he asked for help to do something as simple as standing up—to react.

Then Buttercup's gaze shifts to the small bloodstain on his chest. Then she notices the similar shade of crimson at the corner of his mouth.

Her eyes widen. "You're bleeding."

Marley says, "What?"

He cringes. "I'm not—" he cuts off into another sigh as they both rush at him, grabbing hold of an arm each and helping him to his feet. "I'm not bleeding. I just coughed some of the stuff up."

"By doing what?" Marley asks, exasperated. "Punching yourself in the chest?"

"No, I just..." he trails off into a mumble, unwilling to tell them about it now that it's the subject of the conversation.

"What?"

"I said I pu..." yet another string of mumbled words follows. Marley lets out an irritated scoff.

"Speak up, for fuck's sake!"

"I puked and then I started dry heaving and then blood came out, alright!?" he blurts out angrily, and then grimaces at the raging migraine he's suffering right now. "There, I said it. Happy?"

The silence that follows is awkward enough to make his cheeks burn. He ducks his head out of their sight; he needs to leave this place with his dignity intact, at least.

Then Buttercup snorts. "Lightweight."

"Do you ever stop being such a _shithead_?"

"The irony of your entire drinking sitch is the most ridiculous shit I've ever seen," Marley laughs.

"Why the hell are you on her side?"

He guffaws at the sight of Butch's red face, choking out, "I'm not! It's just hilarious how you constantly insist on drinking, but end up getting dummy-wasted after two shots."

" _It was more than two shots, you fuckers._ "

"Keep telling yourself that, Deadass-Skill."

"Apparently, that nickname doesn't apply to more, uh... _hardcore_ acts like drinking," Buttercup sings.

"Or staying fully clothed when drunk," Marley adds. Butch sneers.

" _I fucking hate you two._ "

* * *

"What the fuck did you do, you dumbass?" Brick questions, his expression the very definition of unamusement.

Between Buttercup and Marley stopping every couple of seconds to berate Butch with an onslaught of teasing, and Butch having to dry heave two more times, the trip back to the Rowdyruff's apartment was a slow one. And now they're here, trying to explain to Brick why a Powerpuff and a normie are at his doorstep at one in the morning with his scantily-clad brother in tow.

Before said scantily-clad brother can respond, Buttercup pipes up. "He downed alcohol so fast he retched out his oesophagus."

Butch swipes at the green-eyed girl with frightening accuracy; she recoils from the violent bitch-slap to the face milliseconds before it makes contact.

" _Why_?" she yells.

"Because _fuck you_."

Marley heaves a sigh and takes the wheel. "He dry heaved until he coughed up blood, and he's still feeling pain," he tells the other redhead.

"And your way of helping him was to not take him to a hospital, but to bring him here?"

Marley stalls. "Uh, you _are_ his older brother, so we figured—"

"I'm not a doctor, though."

"And uh, _you_ figured. Not we," Buttercup interjects, earning her glares from both of her companions.

"Look," Marley starts. "It's just some pain and general hangover symptoms. He's not coughing blood anymore, so I guessed he'd just need to sleep it off." his voice drops an octave. "Y'know, _at his house._ "

Brick narrows his eyes, and the other two superpowered teens can't help but stare at Marley.

Butch's respect for Marley stems from a lot of places, but mostly, he respects the redhead's ability to treat him, his brothers, and the Powerpuffs as equals. Anyone who doesn't know him could easily think he's superhuman too, with how he talks and acts. Right now, Marley's staring Brick down like the normie's perfectly capable of punching him in the nose without breaking his hand.

Of course, he wouldn't be stupid enough to actually try it.

But he looks like he can.

After a long while of uncomfortable silence, Brick sighs and steps to the side and says, "Just take him to his room and then leave. I'm too tired to care."

"Thanks," Marley says, brightening immediately.

They head into the spacious apartment, and Butch feels pretty good about himself when he notices Buttercup's eyes widen.

"Holy shit." her gaze ricochets around the large space, taking it in. "How-how do you guys even pay for this? You don't have even have any jobs!"

Butch shrugs. "Our dads kinda went a little overboard with trying to...out-dad each other. Bought and built us a bunch of stuff." he can't help but grin smugly. "This is one of Him's gifts, obviously. Most of the stuff Mojo made ended up exploding or just falling apart."

"You still accept stuff from Him?" she questions. He decides to ignore the wariness in her tone.

"Why wouldn't we?"

She doesn't respond to that.

He directs his companions towards his room. As soon as Marley opens the door he flies out of their grip and floats over to his bed. He promptly faceplants into it—and then regrets everything immediately after because _god_ , he's making a lot of bad decisions tonight.

At the sound of his agonized groan, Buttercup and Marley mutter "Idiot," in unison.

" _Assholes_ ," he hisses back, and then groans again. Marley snorts.

"I get that you have this whole masochistic pain-loving thing going on," he says, leaning against the door. "But I'm not sure if you actually _like_ making things way harder for yourself, or..."

"Can you both leave now?" Butch grumbles into his pillow.

"I just have to ask something first," Buttercup pipes up. "I wanna know exactly why you're wearing nothing but your boxers."

A muffled growl is heard from Butch's place on the bed. Then he shrugs and faces the far wall, making an 'I dunno' sound in the back of his throat.

"He's wearing a jacket too," Marley says, echoing Butch's words from earlier with a chuckle.

"I'd like to think you imagined that a girl invited you over to that field and got you all hot and bothered," Buttercup sings with a simper.

"So you're saying he lost his virginity...to himself?"

"You make everything sound way better, Marley."

"You fuckin'—" the hungover ravenette pauses to find the right cuss word. "...bastiches."

"I'm still waiting for an answer though," the green-eyed girl presses.

"I don't know! _Get the fuck out_!"

She snorts, finally letting the issue go. Butch lets out a groan when he hears footsteps, but he realizes too late that they're coming towards him, not away—

" _I'll see you at school tomorrow, okay_!?" Buttercup bellows inches from his ear, making him cringe into the wall so hard he accidentally headbutts it and oh _GOD DOES THAT HURT LIKE HELL—_

"Alright, that's enough," he hears Marley's voice and Buttercup's fading footsteps, but he's too caught up in the throbbing agony in his head to register it completely. He feels a little surprised at how badly he's reacting, but at this point he doesn't even care.

Because, out of all the pain he's experienced, this kind of pain is the kind he'd rather live without.

"She's fun," Marley chuckles quietly from the doorway.

"She's a piece of shit," he mumbles petulantly, riding out the pounding in his head as it slowly subsides.

"That's probably why you like her," he says. "I'll uh, see you at the arcade tomorrow?"

He can only grunt in response, but Marley gets it. Hearing unspoken words is probably the guy's secret superpower or something.

"Okay," the redhead whispers. "And don't forget to wear your pants."

Butch graciously flips him the bird again, and the blue-eyed teen laughs softly as he leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

It takes a while for the pain to completely fade, but by that time it's manageable and familiar enough for him to just wallow in. It's a strange way to handle it; he kinda gets why Marley called him masochistic, but he doesn't think it's that exactly.

His gaze shifts to his window, his ears straining to pick up the smallest of sounds in the empty night, and he sighs.

He doesn't want to have nights like this to himself. Quietness leads to thinking. Thinking leads to him indulging in the morbid thoughts within him. The ones that cower during the daylight, hoping to be set free in the silence unholy hours bring. To snake their tendrils through the crevices of his mind until he gives in to them.

Pain grabs his attention. Shifts it to the physical so he can subconsciously push those thoughts away and focus on the broken bones and punctured organs. Or shuts him down completely, so all that takes over his mind is empty nothingness.

His body's good with that. He bears the scars with pride. But when he can't lose his consciousness, or drown in pain, he turns to drinking.

Drinking blurs his mind. Turns it into mush so the tendrils don't know where to go. That's one of the reasons why he started doing it in the first place, contrary to the belief that he just wants to get wasted so he can act like a piece of shit without getting judged for it.

Unfortunately for him, his body hates the poison he constantly pumps into his blood. His shaking hands and aching throat are enough proof of that.

But it's all he can do.

His hands find his covers, pull them up over his head. He curls into a tight ball, hating the lucidity of his mind right now. He slows his breathing and focuses on trying to sleep instead.

It's only long after, when his lids are heavy and he's just about to drift off, that Marley's words properly hit home.

_That's probably why you like her._

He shrieks at the blatant implication. And then has to go though the migraine coming back with full force. With an aggravated groan, he buries his face in his pillow and grunts out every expletive he's ever learnt.

_He hates his fucking friends._

**Author's Note:**

> Wowie this got deep real quick XD
> 
> Welp, that's it. My first oneshot, that I somehow managed to lengthen into approximately 3000 words despite the main idea being hungover Butch. But I'm not complaining.
> 
> I hope ya enjoyed it! :-)


End file.
